


petal

by oatrevolution



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mama Phoebe, Munich era, Seizures, hints of hurt/no comfort, seizure recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:21:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29209533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oatrevolution/pseuds/oatrevolution
Summary: Phoebe arrives, as always, to help.
Relationships: Winnie Kirchberger/Freddie Mercury
Comments: 12
Kudos: 27





	petal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [freddieofhearts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freddieofhearts/gifts).



> For a very dear friend, one of the sweetest people in this fandom. Thank you for everything.
> 
> Many thanks to my beta, [aboutnothingness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thesherlockholmes/pseuds/Aboutnothingness), who cheered me on and made this little drabble so much better than it was when it started out. Any remaining mistakes are willfully mine.

Barbara lets Peter in when he knocks, her normally immaculate hair slightly disheveled and her eyes wide. She grasps at his wrist with surprisingly strong fingers. “You have to help him,” she says desperately. “He is shaking, we do not know what to do—”

“Where is—?” But then Peter’s voice cuts off as he sees Freddie: collapsed on the floor beside Winnie’s sofa, alone, convulsing, fingers clutching at nothing. 

In another moment, Peter finds himself beside him, kneeling down, reaching out to hold him, attempting to turn him on his side and keep him there—he can’t bear to leave Freddie so close to the side table, topped with an elaborate flower arrangement, set less than a foot away. He could knock the beautiful Japanese vase over, and it’s the only thing in this room that seems to belong to Freddie; the rest is plain and masculine, while the spray of flowers is bright, gaudy—though one droops, petals wilted and paper-dry. Perhaps they aren’t being watered enough. Freddie’s eyes are half-open and utterly blank, like Freddie himself has left his body, or been locked away deep inside.

He hears Barbara’s voice, murmuring, and Winnie responds, gruff as always. Peter can only think of Freddie, abandoned on the floor.

“You’re all right, sweetheart,” he says, finding his voice. “Freddie? Can you hear me? It’s Phoebe, Freddie. Breathe for me, dear, can you do that? Can you blink, let me know you hear me? Oh—oh, sweetheart… Freddie—”

When Freddie’s eyes focus again—life in the dark depths rather than terrible emptiness—Peter could cry. It’s never certain that he’ll return to himself, is it?

The doctors have said it’s only overindulgence of alcohol and too many drugs, but Peter knows better. Knows how hard Freddie fights the shadows, and how he sometimes loses, gets lost in his own mind, his body out of his control; and nobody would ever have known, officially, except he had a turn at Winnie’s last month and Winnie got so concerned—

“ _Geht es ihm gut?_ ” Winnie’s voice; Winnie hovering nearby, leaning over Peter’s shoulder. Freddie sees him—his eyelids flutter—he turns his head away, closing his eyes.

Peter gestures for Winnie to step away, and whether the man either doesn’t understand or chooses not to take the hint, Barbara does, and she steps forward, anxious hands resting on Winnie’s shoulder. She murmurs to him, draws him back, and Peter turns to Freddie, who has raised a hand to his face. He’s shaking, but they are, at least, the tremors of a man in his body, not out of it. The fingers of his free hand curl into his palm, a dying spider’s legs turning inwards.

“Shh, sweetheart, it’s all right,” Peter says soothingly. He slips his fingers through Freddie’s short hair, just the way he likes, as though he’s one of the cats. “You’re all right now. It’s over.”

Freddie lets out a noise, loud and sudden; it seems to startle him. He covers his mouth, and now his face is entirely hidden by his hands, though it does not make him any quieter. He shakes, this time with dry sobs, and Peter, his heart aching, pulls him half-up into his lap.

“Oh, dearie,” he murmurs, “oh, petal, you’re all right. That’s it, that’s it.”

And Freddie clings—as he always clings when his fits are over—his face pressed into Peter’s stomach. His breath, hot and fast, warms Peter’s skin beneath his shirt. Peter, familiar with this phase, with the panic, covers the back of his neck with one broad palm.

“ _Lass mich ihn sehen!_ ” Winnie thunders, and Freddie flinches, curls closer. “ _Es ist meine Aufgabe, ihn zu trösten._ ”

“ _Bitte leise sein…_ ” Barbara pleads.

“ _Warum lebt er bei mir, wenn ern ich will, dass ich ihn tröste?_ ” A crash, then, as Winnie sweeps one arm out, knocking down the vase of flowers, water spilling, crushed petals strewn among broken porcelain—delicate green, vibrant pink, bone white.

At this, Freddie actually cries out, and Peter can stand it no longer. “Calm him down, please!” he says to Barbara, rubbing down Freddie’s spine, feeling the bony knobs through his shirt. “If he can’t be quiet, take him outside—!”

“I know, I know,” Barbara snaps. She looks at Peter, her features oddly pinched, clearly out-of-sorts, worry for Freddie in her clear eyes—Freddie, small and crumpled, as fragile as any of them have ever seen him. She turns back to Winnie, putting her hand on his arm again, and speaks to him quietly, in more German that Peter doesn’t understand. Masterfully, she manages to coax him out into the corridor, Winnie growling and grumbling with every step.

The door closes behind them.

“There, darling,” Peter says. “No one to see you but me. You’re all right. I won’t let anyone hurt you.” 

Freddie’s shaking, crying now, making wet little noises that had been inaudible under Winnie’s shouting, the cascade of German, and Peter curls over him, as though to shield him—as though it were possible to shield him. 

“Let me hold you, little one,” he says softly, lifting the small, unresisting body into his arms.

“Ph—Phoebe,” Freddie gets out, as he manages to get his arms around Peter’s shoulders and his face into Peter’s throat. He trembles as Peter settles him in his lap, and cries, leaking spit and snot onto his skin and shirt. Peter tucks him as close as he can, bundles him up tight.

“I know, love,” he whispers. “I know, you were frightened, weren’t you?”

Delicate fingers dig into the meat of his shoulders, and Freddie nods frantically. He can’t seem to speak through his tears.

“Well, I’m here now. Nothing can hurt you while I’m here.” 

Gently rocking the little form in his arms, Peter finds himself kissing the crown of Freddie’s head absently, like he would do with a small child. His hair smells of ash and sweat and sick. 

“I’ll give you a bath, just like always,” he says, swallowing back his questions about the last time anyone took care of Freddie—he’s trying so hard to be independent, mustn’t push… but it hurts, it cuts Peter’s heart, to smell the neglect on his vulnerable charge. “Nice and warm with lots of bubbles, just the way you like it. Won’t that be nice?”

Snuffling, Freddie just clings tighter.

“Or just to bed? Would that be better?” 

He’s hardly finished speaking when Freddie shakes his head, violently, his wrists, braced on Peter’s shoulders, actually shaking with the force of his grip. Peter will have bruises in the shape of his fingers, lover’s marks where no lover exists.

“The bath, then, when you’re ready,” Peter interprets. “We’ll just sit here until you feel up to it, dear, don’t worry.” He scrapes his nails lightly through Freddie’s hair, against his scalp. “You’re doing so well. It was very frightening, but you’re through it now, and you’ve been so brave.”

Freddie shudders against him, then goes limp, and allows Peter to whisper to him, pet him, rock him gently on his lap. Just the two of them in Winnie’s sitting room, Freddie’s tears soaking into the collar of Peter’s shirt, the water from the broken vase into the carpet. The flowers—freesias—bruised and crushed, petals faltering; at least one of them, it seems, already sickly, already wilting.

Peter tucks Freddie’s head under his chin. “You’re through it now,” he says again, through the sudden tightness in his chest. “You’re all right, dearie. I won’t let anything hurt you.”

**Author's Note:**

> From Phoebe's book: "He had apparently just blacked out but then had displayed symptoms of severe shaking. We just had to hold him steady and still until the tremors passed whereupon he would regain consciousness. Doctors were obviously called and they diagnosed the results of too much alcohol and use of drugs."


End file.
